The afternoon slid by with the same sluggish momentum as the morning. English literature with Mrs. Davis was next—her passion for Shakespeare on full display, though it mostly bounced off a room full of glazed eyes. A few polite nods, the occasional yawn hidden behind a hand.
Alex, who'd read Macbeth the previous summer in English, Japanese, and Russian—because why not—found his focus drifting again, this time to the silver-haired girl sitting a few rows ahead.
Katarina Volkov. She moved with a quiet steadiness that made her stand out, even among the louder personalities in class. Her handwriting, neat and deliberate, looked almost like calligraphy next to the chaos scrawled across the desks around her. When Mrs. Davis called on her to read, she stood without hesitation, her accent subtle but noticeable—melodic, hard to place. Not quite Russian, but close.
She read Shakespeare with clarity, never stumbling on the dense language. It was rare to see a student handle Elizabethan English so smoothly, and Alex couldn't help but notice that she didn't just pronounce the words correctly—she understood them.
There was something familiar in that. That same quiet, internal processing. She wasn't just a good student. She was thinking on a different frequency.
During a pause in class—Mrs. Davis fumbling with an old CD player for a dated audio clip—Katarina stretched slightly. Her shoulders rolled back as she glanced at her notes, then out the window, eyes drifting somewhere far away.
A sigh escaped her. Then a whisper, soft and tired:"Сколько ещё этого? Хочу домой, к книгам."(How much more of this? I want to go home, to my books.)
Alex smirked to himself. He got it. He'd always felt more at home in books than in the blur of school life. The idea of "home" wasn't a house—it was the world behind the page. The quiet where you could just think.
That history quiz earlier—the one that had clearly irked her—hadn't been the train wreck she'd feared. She might've missed the specifics on the Meiji Restoration, but her responses, from what Alex saw as the papers were handed forward, were sharp. She pulled from broader knowledge, connecting dots most students didn't even see. She wasn't guessing. She was deducing.
As the papers were collected, she leaned back, pen tapping lightly against the desk."Ну, это было… познавательно. В основном о пробелах в моих знаниях."(Well, that was… educational. Mostly about the gaps in my knowledge.)
It wasn't said in frustration. Just... matter-of-fact. Honest.
Alex found himself admiring that. The quiet self-awareness, spoken in a language no one else in class understood. She didn't perform. Didn't mask. There was something raw and real about it.
Math was the last class of the day, taught by Mr. Tanaka (thankfully no relation to Kenji or Yumi), a man of sharp eyes and sharper expectations. Advanced calculus today. The kind of material that usually melted brains before the first equation was finished.
Alex, who had always found comfort in mathematical logic, cruised through the lecture with ease. But what caught his attention wasn't the lesson. It was Katarina again. She was locked in, eyes focused, scribbling more notes than what was necessary. Supplementary calculations. Side thoughts. A kind of engagement that wasn't about grades. It was about understanding.
Mr. Tanaka threw up a complex derivative on the board—something multi-step and meant to weed out the daydreamers.
"Anyone care to attempt the first step?" he asked, gaze scanning the class.
Silence. Students ducked their heads like prey under threat.
Except Katarina.
Her eyes stayed on the board. Alex noticed her lips move, almost invisibly. He tuned in, filtering the room's hum.
"Так… если взять производную от внешней функции… потом умножить на производную внутренней… Да, это должно сработать."(So… if you take the derivative of the outer function… then multiply by the derivative of the inner… Yes, that should work.)
She was solving it. Out loud. In Russian. To herself.
Before Alex could decide if he wanted to jump in—he usually held back unless absolutely necessary—her hand rose. Not shyly. Calm. Certain.
Mr. Tanaka raised a brow. "Ah, Miss Volkov. Please."
She stood, walked to the board, marker in hand. Her silver hair caught the light, just enough to draw a few stares. But she didn't notice. Or didn't care. Her steps were fluid, every line she drew purposeful. The solution came out clean—each step precise, flowing from the last.
No mistakes. No corrections.
The room watched, stunned. Alex watched, something deeper stirring beneath admiration.
When she finished, Mr. Tanaka stepped back and examined her work. Then, for the first time that Alex could remember, the teacher smiled.
"Excellent, Miss Volkov. Truly excellent. A perfect execution."
Her nod in response was barely noticeable. Her cheeks colored faintly."Ничего особенного, просто логика."(Nothing special, just logic.)
It was a whisper. Not bragging. Just her truth.
Alex chuckled quietly. For her, maybe it was just logic. For half the class, it might as well have been dark magic.
He considered talking to her. There was so much behind that quiet presence—he could hear it in every whispered Russian phrase, see it in the way she approached a problem.
But he stayed silent. The fact that he understood her, that he was the only one in class catching her off-the-cuff Russian musings, was a strange kind of secret. A private connection.
The bell rang. A wave of release swept the room—zippers zipping, chairs scraping, chatter exploding.
Alex packed his things carefully, still thinking about her. She was already done, bag on shoulder, standing as though waiting for the chaos to die down.
Kenji Tanaka, his best friend and relentless source of chaos, swooped in with an arm around his shoulders.
"Man, that calculus problem fried my brain," Kenji groaned. "Did you see the new girl? Volkov? Smoked it. Like some anime genius. And that hair? Total ice queen vibe. Wild, huh?"
Alex shrugged. "She's smart."
"Smart and intimidating," Kenji said with a grin. "Probably too cool for guys like us. So, ramen after school?"
"Yeah. Sure."
But Alex's mind was still on her. On the precision of her logic. On the exhaustion in her whispered Russian. On the contrast between what the others saw—a distant, intense girl—and what he caught: her dry humor, her fierce intellect, her fatigue with shallow interactions.
As they walked toward the door, he spotted Hana Yoshida—the hyperactive president of the Anime and Manga Club—zooming in on Katarina like a guided missile.
"Volkov-san!" Hana all but shouted. "Your hair is amazing! You're, like, straight out of Crystal Dream Saga! You have to join our cosplay event next month!"
Katarina froze for a half second, clearly caught off guard by Hana's nuclear-level energy. She smiled politely. "Thank you, Yoshida-san. That's very kind. I'll... consider it."
Hana launched into a detailed pitch as they walked off. Alex caught Katarina's whisper in the hallway noise:"О, нет, только не это. Косплей? Я? Вряд ли."(Oh no, not this. Cosplay? Me? Unlikely.)
This time, Alex didn't hold back his smile. The idea of the sharp, reserved Katarina in some frilly cosplay outfit? Amusing, to say the least.
Kenji noticed. "You grinning about something?"
Alex just shook his head. "Thinking this year might be more interesting than I expected."
And for the first time all day, he meant it.
[End Chapter 2]